


this is what it means to swim in the tide

by theglitterati



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Competant Ron Weasley, Depression, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry is having the quarter-life crisis to end them all, M/M, Men Crying, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Recovery, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, really this is just id fic about adult!ron being competant and hot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglitterati/pseuds/theglitterati
Summary: Growing up in a war is hard. So is learning to live once the war is over.Harry made it five years after the Battle of Hogwarts before he ran away and never came back. Another five years later, he shows up on Ron's doorstep, begging him to help him put his life back together. But recovery is a longer road than either of them knows.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Circe by Madeline Miller.

Harry found the flat easily enough, despite the rain. It was tucked away in a forgotten corner of London, in a building that looked as old as Hogwarts and titled balefully in the wind. Getting inside wasn’t as easy. He surveyed the buzzers; only flats one through nine were listed, though the address written on a scrap of paper in Harry’s pocket definitely said apartment ten. He moved closer, squinting — he badly needed new glasses — but number ten wasn’t there.

Time to try something else, then. Harry pulled out his wand from inside his coat. _“Finite Incantatem,”_ he mumbled, tapping it against the brick. As soon as he did, a small part of the wall spun around beneath number nine, revealing the bell he wanted: _Number Ten, R. Weasley._

There was a time when just that little spell would have awed Harry, left him reeling at the wonders that magic made possible. But those days were long gone.

He pressed the buzzer, and a second later, the door popped open, heavy oak swinging outwards. Harry stepped inside, into a tiny, carpeted foyer. The staircase before him slanted more steeply than the outside walls. Harry started up them, correctly guessing that he’d find Ron’s flat on the top floor.

He knocked, quietly at first, then louder as he summoned his courage. Then the door swung open, and there stood his best friend, in a sweater and corduroys, a crooked smile on his face. Just as he had looked when Harry left him five years ago.

Harry cleared his throat, which had suddenly constricted at the sight of Ron. “Nice trick with the buzzer,” he said.

If Ron was alarmed to see Harry, he didn’t show it. “Got tired of muggles trying to sell me things.”

There was a moment of silence, and Harry worried that he’d made a mistake, coming here. Ron was going to slam the door in his face any second. _And he should,_ Harry thought. He deserved that, and worse—

“You coming in, mate?” Ron asked mildly.

Harry choked up again. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll put the kettle on. You look like pure shit, you know that?” Ron disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’m aware.” Harry followed him in, shutting the door behind him. He set his duffel bag on the floor, and found a hook to hang his coat on. He kicked off his boots, already feeling better than he had downstairs.

“Nice place,” he called to Ron. It wasn’t the bachelor pad you’d expect from a twenty-seven-year-old man living alone, but a warm, cozy little apartment, full of old, mismatched furniture and hand-knit blankets. It was cluttered but clean, a non-magical broom leaning near the door. It reminded Harry, painfully, of the Gryffindor common room.

“Thanks,” Ron answered from the kitchen. “Mum and Percy helped decorate. Way nicer than that hole we used to live in.” He was referring to the apartment he and Harry had shared after leaving Auror training. That place really was a bachelor pad.

Harry heard a squawk from the kitchen, and went to investigate, in case Ron had burnt himself. But it wasn’t him that made the noise.

“Blimey, is that Pigwidgeon?” The little bird sat on a perch by the window, hooting softly as Harry stroked his head.

“Yeah. Can you believe that bugger’s still alive? Do you know I’ve had him as long as I had Scabbers now? Pretty sure Pig’s just a bird, though.” Harry ripped his hand back as Pig tried to take a bite of it. Unable to think of anything else to say, he wandered back into the living room. He blinked when he saw a black box sitting on a table in front of the couch.

“You have a TV?” Harry stepped closer. “And… is that an Xbox?!” 

Ron laughed. “Yep. This bloke at work, Morris, he’s muggle-born, and he got us all hooked on playing these games on the webs with him. It’s wild stuff. I had to take away Dad’s spare key to keep him from tearing the thing apart to see how it works.”

Ron, playing video games. Harry’s brain nearly short-circuited. He hadn’t played a video game since he used to sneak downstairs to use Dudley’s Playstation when the Dursleys were asleep. Harry bent down to see what games were on the shelf.

Ron came back in, carrying two cups of tea. “Sugar, no milk,” he said, handing Harry his. “If you still take it that way.”

Harry straightened up. “I do. Thank you.”

Ron flopped down on the couch, gesturing for Harry to take the plush armchair across the room. Harry sat, nearly sinking down to the floor.

“I would have thought you and Hermione’d have moved in by now,” Harry said.

Ron smiled wryly. “Not much fun living with your ex-girlfriend.”

Harry almost spat out his tea. “You split up?!”

Ron nodded. “Nearly two years ago now.”

“I… I’m sorry, mate,” Harry sputtered.

“S’alright. We’re still friendly, I suppose. She’s dating some hoity-toity French guy now.”

“Wow.”

Ron frowned. “You know, all this time I wondered if you were still in touch with her. I guess not.”

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone from… before.” From his old life.

Ron just sipped his tea. “Well,” he said, “since you’ve shown up on my doorstep, and I’ve invited you in and made you tea, now, I think I have a right to ask: Where in the everloving fuck have you been?”

Harry went over the last five years in his head. “Asia, mostly,” he said. “India. America. I even went to Antarctica once.”

“Living the high life, then?” Ron said lightly.

It would be so easy for Harry to laugh, to make a joke. Pretend like he had just been travelling for fun, that he’d been happy to be gone. But he didn’t come back here for that. He came back to try to dig himself out of the hole he’d fallen down.

He took a deep breath. “I was running away,” he said. “Trying to disappear.”

“Hard to disappear when you’re Harry Potter,” Ron pointed out.

“Not in the muggle world, and not when I change my appearance.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, his natural black for once, and knotted from the storm outside. Today was the first time he’d looked like himself in years. Scar and all. His hand drifted over it as he tried to untangle his hair.

And then before he knew it, he was telling Ron everything, how he’d spent the past years in a daze, wandering through towns thousands of miles away, trying anything, everything, to forget who he was. He’d seen Mount Everest and secret magical enclaves in China and the damn Alamo, and none of it made him feel even one iota better.

“And I know you probably think I’m a complete arsehole for leaving the way I did, and for not writing, and for showing up here like this,” Harry finished ungracefully. “And you’re going to think I’m even more of an arsehole for asking, but I need a place to stay, and I thought maybe I could stay here with you.”

Ron’s eyebrows lifted. He set his teacup on the table with a clunk. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely?” Harry said, his voice lifting. “I’m going to try to get my old job back, if they’ll have me, even if it takes a while. Until then I can help out with rent, too, and I…” he trailed off.

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re back for good then?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re not leaving again?”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “Promise.”

Ron stared at him for a long time, and Harry felt sure he was going to say no, but then the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“I’m really pissed off at you, you know that?” But he was smiling.

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Good. You should be.” Ron leaned back on the couch. “Mum’s gonna bloody kill you when she sees you.”

“Er, could you maybe not tell her I’m here yet? I don’t think I’m ready to see everyone.”

Ron pursed his lips. “Fine. But I’m sending Pig to Hermione to let her know.”

“Okay, but just Hermione.”

“And Hagrid,” Ron added.

“And Hagrid,” Harry agreed. Of all the people Harry felt guilty about leaving, Hagrid was the worst.

“Good.” Ron pointed to Harry’s duffel bag. “Is that all your stuff? Bit sad if it is.”

Harry laughed. It sounded strange to him. It had been a long time. “That’s it.”

“Okay,” Ron said, standing. “Go get it, and I’ll show you your room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to any British readers: I'm Canadian, so if you notice anything that sounds suspiciously North American (or suspiciously like a North American trying to sound English), please let me know! :)


	2. Chapter 2

“Harry! You’re really here!”

“Hi, Hermio—” She launched herself at him, hugging him tight, and he had to stop talking to spit out a piece of her hair that found its way into his mouth.

Hermione held on for a moment, then pulled back, suddenly serious. “Don’t you ever leave us like that again!”

“I won’t,” Harry promised. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione nodded. “Apology accepted. Now, come sit.” Harry dusted a few ashes from his pants — he had come through the Floo Network right into Hermione’s office — and joined her.

Being head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement necessitated a nice office, and Hermione suited it. She hadn’t aged much since Harry last saw her, but she looked more refined, in a set of professional black robes, with her hair mostly under control. Harry wore jeans.

“So,” Hermione said, looking expectant.

“What?”

“How were your… travels?”

“Fine. Actually, awful.”

She frowned. “What did you do?”

“Not much, really.”

“Well, no wonder it was awful, then,” she said with a sigh. “You’ve got to keep yourself busy, Harry. It’s the only way…” She trailed off. There was a distracted, frenetic look in her eyes. Harry felt he had seen it before, though he couldn’t quite remember when.

“Maybe you can help me with that,” Harry said, drawing her attention back.

She let out a snort. “That’s why you came today? To ask me for a favour?”

“Of course not, Hermione.” Harry wasn’t in the mood to get emotional in the Ministry of Magic of all places, but he had missed her desperately. More than anyone except Ron.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just been so long. I still can’t believe you’re here. Tell me what you need. I’ll help however I can.”

“Well…” Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to… settle in again. To come back. Permanently. Ron” — Harry winced slightly saying his name, but Hermione didn’t seem bothered — “thinks I can get my old job at the Auror office back, in time, and I know a recommendation from the Head of Magical Law Enforcement wouldn’t hurt.”

Hermione had picked up a quill while he spoke, and she spun it slowly, studying him. “You and Ron,” she said finally, “have not changed one bit, have you? Even now, neither of you has a clue how to handle your emotions.”

“What?!”

“You really think going back to your Auror position is a good idea when you’re this unstable? Where you’ll be running into all kinds of dark magic? My god, Harry, you’d be gone in under a week!”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again. Hermione had a point.

“What do you suggest I do, then?” he asked her.

She smiled. “I’m glad you asked. I just thought of something that would be perfect for you.” Harry understood that she had been planning whatever she “just thought of” for the last week, since Ron told her he was here. She was always three steps ahead of them both.

She pulled a file from a desk drawer. “There’s a temporary opening in the Magical Artefacts Office. Broomstick regulations. Sturgess, whose job it is, had an accident with a bad Cleansweep prototype and won’t be back for quite a while. But you’d be testing and certifying brooms! You’d get to see all the new models before they hit the market. There’s paperwork, too, of course, loads of it, but doesn’t that sound fun?”

“It does, actually,” Harry said, surprising himself. “But I don’t know…”

“You’re going to love it. I’ll put in the paperwork to hire you, and you can start Monday.” Harry began to protest, but Hermione cut him off. “I don’t mean to be pushy, but I’m not letting you go back to the Aurors before you’re ready just to abandon us again.”

Hermione’s bossiness was one part of her personality Harry did not miss, but he was too tired to argue. The job was temporary, and he could use some time to get back on his feet. Plus, it had been ages since he’d been on a broom.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” He paused for a moment, uncomfortable. “And I didn’t  _ abandon _ you,” he said, even though he had. “You had Ron, and from what I hear, you’ve got a Frenchman to keep you company now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “My being in a relationship doesn’t mean it’s alright for you to run off with no warning. And he’s not French, he’s Swiss. His name’s Lucien. He’s my counterpart in the Swiss Ministry.”

“I still can’t believe you and Ron broke up,” Harry said.

“Why is that so hard to believe? We’re very different people, Harry.” She seemed to want to say more, but just then, a little metal bird on her desk started to chirp, hopping around over Harry’s new job file. “Oh, that means I’m late for a meeting. I’m sorry to have to cut this short.” She stood up, already gathering her things. “I’ll see you on Monday, and we can have lunch together, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You can let yourself out whenever you’re ready,” she said as she dashed to the door. She opened it, and then looked back.

“And Harry?”

He looked up. Her eyes glistened in the bright light of the office. 

“It’s really good to see you,” she said.

He smiled. “You too.”

Hermione left, shutting the door behind her. It was only then that Harry realized what the strung-out look in her eyes reminded him of: their third year at Hogwarts, when she had been using the Time Turner to attend multiple classes, and had worn herself nearly to death.

***

Harry slipped out after her and headed in the opposite direction down the hall. This was going to be good, he thought. Ron might be upset — he had been looking forward to having Harry back at work, although mostly, it seemed, because he needed backup in an argument about quidditch he was having with a coworker — but that would happen soon enough.

He couldn’t take the Floo Network home — they’d used Ron’s muggle neighbour’s fireplace to get him there, and they couldn’t risk him being home when he came back. So he stepped into the elevator instead, keeping his hood up and his head down so no one would notice him. It was hard to stay hidden in this crowd though, for as soon as he exited the elevator into the lobby, he was thrust into rabble of wizards heading home from work.

And into his memories, which flooded his mind as soon as he stepped onto the tiled floor. He’d worked in the building for years, but for some reason, all he could see now was Dumbledore and Voldemort locked in a duel, Arthur escorting him to his underage magic hearing, Bellatrix Lestrange laughing about killing Sirius— he breathed deeply, trying to control himself.

“Hey,” a man with impeccably bad timing said to him, far too loudly. “Aren’t you Harry Potter?!” Dozens of heads turned immediately toward Harry.

_ Fuck _ . Harry lowered his head and, wand in his pocket, performed a quick spell to change his appearance. Nothing drastic, because the guy had already spotted him, but enough so that when he lowered his hood, he had brown eyes and no scar. His features were the same, but no one had seen Harry Potter in five years.

“Sorry, I’m not,” he said in a deep voice.

It was enough to fool the crowd. “Too bad. If only, right mate?” The man laughed, patting Harry on the back and walking away. The looky-loos turned away.

Harry stopped to catch his breath, then practically ran through the crowd. He had to get out of there.

***

Harry was lying on the couch when Ron got home from work a few hours later. The week he had spent in Ron’s flat hadn’t made it feel like home yet, but the drugs in his system took away any trepidation he felt about intruding on Ron’s life. Actually, they took away all his nerves, period.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” Ron said as he hung up his coat. “This little fucker, David, right, he—” He stopped at the back of the couch, looking down at Harry. “You alright, mate?”

Harry felt too sleepy to answer, or even care that Ron was talking to him. “Mmmph,” he muttered.

Above him, Ron frowned. “Did you have too much firewhisky or something?”

“Nah,” Harry drawled. Why did Ron look so upset?

“Let me sit down, at least.” Ron circled around the couch and shoved Harry’s legs off it, making him sit up a bit. Something fell to the floor when he did. Harry couldn’t bring himself to care what it was.

Until Ron picked it up and waved it in his face. A little brownish-orange bottle with a white lid. “What’s this?”

“It’s… nothing.”

“Is it muggle medicine?”

Harry nodded.

“What are you taking muggle pills for?” Ron asked. _ “Ben-zo-di… _ Merlin’s beard, I can’t even pronounce that. It also says these are for someone named Frankie Little.”

“Must be the bloke I bought them from,” Harry mused. “Nice guy.”

Ron looked confused. “If they’re not yours, then why are you taking them?” His face fell as he realized the answer without Harry having to say it. Through the haze of the drugs, Harry felt like he was watching it in slow motion. He knew he was supposed to feel… something. But he couldn’t.

“How many did you take?” Ron asked, his voice rising.

“Dunno,” Harry mumbled. “Five?”

“Bloody hell, it says to take one per day!” He jumped up. “Do I need to take you to St. Mungo’s? Or to a muggle healer?”

Harry wished he’d relax. Maybe  _ he _ needed some pills. “S’fine,” Harry managed, though he was really getting tired. “I’ve taken them before.”

“Is this… is this what you were doing for the last five years?”

Harry opened his mouth to tell Ron that no, that wasn’t  _ all _ he’d been doing, he only took the pills when things got really bad, when he just couldn’t take it anymore, being in his own head, he didn’t  _ need _ them, but his eyelids were so heavy, and they shut of their own accord.

The last thing Harry remembered was Ron hauling him upright, dragging him into his bedroom.

***

Harry woke up late the next morning. He rolled over and groaned. His body felt stiff and weak, and his mouth tasted awful. He grabbed his glasses and checked the time: it was well past midday. The pill bottle sat next to the clock on the nightstand.

“I was going to Vanish them,” Ron said. He stood in the doorway in a dressing gown and pajama pants. “But I thought you should do it yourself.”

“You’re not at work,” Harry noted.

“I called in sick,” he said. “I had to make sure you didn’t die. Again.” From the bags under his eyes, it looked like he’d been doing just that all night. Harry wanted to explain that he was never in any danger of dying, but he didn’t think Ron would want to hear it.

“What happened,” Ron asked flatly.

Harry crunched his nose up. “It was the Ministry. Seeing Hermione was great, she got me a job—” He could explain that later. “But then I went downstairs, and it just hit me, all the things that have happened there. I know it’s ridiculous, because you go there every day and you’re fine, and  _ I _ used to do that, too, but it was just… too much,” he finished lamely.

Ron nodded once, sharply. “I don’t want you taking those drugs in my house again,” he said, sterner than Harry had ever heard him. Then his shoulders sagged. “Or anywhere else,” he pleaded, looking as exhausted as Harry felt.

Now that the drugs had worn off, Harry could feel guilt washing over him, years worth for how worried Ron must have been when he left without a trace.

“I won’t take them again,” Harry said. And he meant it.


	3. Chapter 3

Luckily for Harry, his new department wasn’t in the Ministry headquarters, but in an offsite building on the outskirts of London. 

“Where did you think you were going to test the brooms?” Hermione asked, when she met Harry on his first day. “The Department of Mysteries?” Harry just shrugged. He hadn’t given it much thought.

Hermione escorted him upstairs, probably to make sure he didn’t do a runner. She introduced him to his supervisor, a wizard named Arjun who looked about two hundred years old. That he didn’t jump up terrified when Hermione introduced herself spoke to his seniority; the newbies were clamouring all over each other to impress her.

“This is where I leave you,” Hermione said, once the introductions were over. “Have fun, Harry. Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.” He wondered if Ron had told her about the pills.

Arjun showed Harry to his office, telling him as they walked that he knew, quote, diddly squat, unquote, about broomsticks. He would not be helping Harry at all, preferring to focus on the mounds of magical candy waiting on his desk to be certified for sale. He was not unkind about this, just matter-of-fact. He dropped Harry at his door and sauntered off.

Harry’s office turned out to be, quite literally, a broom closet. There was a tiny desk and chair, both barely visible under a pile of at least a dozen prototype brooms in various stages of unwrap. Harry waded in and shut the door behind him. At least this one wasn’t under the stairs.

He found a checklist of what to test each broom for on the desk. It specified things like steerage, handling, and flammability, as well as a long list of hexes and curses which the brooms were supposed to be resistant to. He also found, once he moved some of the brooms, another door opposite from the one he’d come in through. Opening it, Harry couldn’t help but smile: it led outside to a full-sized quidditch pitch.

The weather was nice, still technically winter but starting to warm up. _Might as well get started,_ Harry thought. He grabbed a random Nimbus model from the pile, fondly remembering his first broom, and headed out.

Ten minutes later and a few hundred feet up, Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.

Flying had a profoundly calming effect on him. The physicality of it lifted him out of this thoughts, forcing him to focus on only his body and the broom. He found a set of quidditch equipment in a shed; he broke out the Snitch and caught it twice, then let loose the Bludgers and caught it another three.

It was noon by the time he came down and filled out the flying part of his checklist. He still had to do the spells. Probably shouldn’t have spent so much time on the pitch, but for how fast his heart was beating right now, it was worth it.

Arjun dropped in to let Harry know he was going to get lunch from the local chippy, and asked if he wanted anything. Harry gratefully agreed; he was starving. After helping Arjun sort out some muggle money to pay with, he sat cleared his chair and sat down, taking in his new office.

All in all, not a bad first day.

***

Despite having done more physical activity that day than in the past five years combined, Harry couldn’t sleep. He lay awake in bed until nearly two in the morning. He could practically hear the benzos calling to him from where he’d stashed them in a drawer. He wasn’t going to take them — he had promised Ron — but he didn’t have it in him to Vanish them, either, though he told Ron he had. Finally, he decided to just get up.

Walking out into the living room, Harry was again struck by how… grown-up Ron’s flat was. The place they’d shared was just a few walls and a roof over their heads — actually, twenty more floors of apartments over their heads. Here, Ron had matching dishes and soft rugs and family photos on the wall. Harry caught a glimpse of himself in one, waving and smiling with his arm around Mrs. Weasley. This was a real home. At twenty-six, Harry had still never really had one, except for Hogwarts, where he was now welcome only as a guest.

He left the lights off so as not to wake Ron and went to make himself some tea. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see in the dark, and ended up dropping his mug on the floor. It shattered, loudly.

“Shit,” Harry hissed. _“Reparo.”_ The mug snapped back together with a soft clink. Harry bent down to pick it up. When he stood again, the lights were on. He drew his wand instinctively, but it was just Ron, squinting into the kitchen from his bedroom door.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Harry shook his head. “Sorry I woke you.”

“S’fine. I was half-awake anyways. I’m always sort of… on watch, you know?” Harry knew, better than anyone. 

“Might as well have some tea, now I’m up,” Ron continued. “Make me a cup, will you?”

“Sure.”

Harry made two cups, then joined Ron on the couch. Pigwidgeon followed him in from the kitchen and came to rest on the back of the couch. Ron reached up absentmindedly and stroked the old owl’s head. Pig shut his eyes and hooted happily.

Now that Harry had gotten used to seeing Ron again, he was starting to notice the changes the past five years had left on him. The beard was the biggest difference; it was neat and cropped close to his face. Harry thought it looked soft. Ron hadn’t gotten any taller, thankfully — he already had three inches on Harry, and Harry didn’t need him towering over him — but he had grown broader. He’d still been a skinny kid when Harry left him; now, his shoulders filled out his sweaters.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ron said, interrupting Harry’s assessment of his looks.

“Mmm,” Harry said, taking a drink of tea.

“Those muggle pills of yours… what are they supposed to cure?”

Harry thought about it. “Anxiety, I guess. Though they’re not really a cure. More like a painkiller.”

Ron nodded thoughtfully. “When Hermione and I were still together,” he said, “a few years ago, she started reading all these books by muggles about, like, head stuff.”

“Psychology.”

“Yeah. She said she felt depressed. She actually saw a muggle doctor about it for a while, though god knows how she talked about anything with him. Probably had to charm him into forgetting everything she said.

“She was convinced we all had this thing… I can’t remember the name of it now, but it makes you have flashbacks and nightmares and stuff. Makes you feel hopeless. She said muggle soldiers that have been in wars get it, too.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry said.

“When is Hermione ever wrong,” Ron said, a little bitterly.

Harry set his tea down. “I guess I just thought… when it was all over, when Voldemort” — Ron still winced at the name — “was dead, everything would be better. That was the point, right? But now… I don’t know.” He looked up. “How do you do it, Ron?”

“Do what?”

Harry waved a hand at the living room, as though that explained everything. “All of it. Having a job, a nice flat, friends… you’re got it all figured out.”

Ron snorted. “I really don’t, mate.”

“You do,” Harry insisted.

“Well,” Ron said. “It doesn’t always feel like it. It hardly ever feels like it.” Harry must have looked discouraged, because he continued. “But you’ve got all those things too, now. Got a job, a bloody good one, too. You’ve got a flat, you’ve got friends” — he gestured to himself and Pig, whose head was now in Ron’s teacup — “and more when you’re ready to see them, Seamus and Dean and George. You’ll get there, mate. Honestly.” He grabbed Harry’s shoulder, looking at him earnestly. He really meant it.

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Yeah, alright.”

Ron grinned, satisfied that he’d cheered Harry up. “Oi, Pig,” he said. “Quit drinking my tea.”

As Harry watched Ron try, unsuccessfully, to disengage the owl from his cup, he thought about how it was always him who was seen as the stronger one, the braver one, of the two of them. He wondered if people would ever realize just how wrong they were. 


	4. Chapter 4

After a few weeks, Harry had finally cleared the pile of brooms off his desk. He felt a silly little pride in himself; he’d caught two defensive weaknesses in the Comet models that would have left their riders open to all kinds of jinxes. It wasn’t killing Voldemort or anything, but it felt good to have done something useful.

He got to enjoy his empty desk for about ten minutes before another broom appeared. Unlike the others, this one was accompanied by its designer. Her face was more angular than he remembered, and her hair long, braided tightly down the side, but she still had the same blazing look in her eye that had driven him crazy when he was sixteen.  _ Ginny. _

“So,” she said, unceremoniously dumping the broom on his desk. “You’re back, then.”

“How did you find me?” Harry knew Ron hadn’t said anything.

“I got lucky. I got a letter that my broom” — she pointed to the broom on the desk, which read  _ Cleansweep 811 Special Edition, in partnership with Ginny Weasley of the Holyhead Harpies _ — “was being sent here for testing, and wasn’t I honoured that it was going to be done by  _ the _ Harry Potter himself?” She looked at him shrewdly. “You could have called.”

“I know. I should have. I’ve just been… busy.” 

“Right. Well.” Ginny looked around. “You don’t seem busy now. Fancy a quick match?” She held another identical broom over her shoulder.

Harry nodded. “Definitely.”

They played one on one, taking turns as keeper, for an hour. Ginny, unsurprisingly, destroyed Harry.

“That’s 100-10,” Ginny yelled, after scoring on Harry for the tenth time. “Shall we just call it?”

“Yeah.” He flew towards the ground. “Though I’d like it on record that you’re a professional.” His ego was more than a little bruised that she’d so thoroughly crushed him.

“You’ve gotten really good,” he said, dismounting beside her. “Like scary good.”

“Mmhmm.”  
Something clicked in Harry’s head at her haughty reply, something that had been tickling the back of his mind while they played, her whipping the quaffle at him with more force than was necessary for a friendly match. “You’re angry with me,” he said.

Ginny scoffed. “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am. I mean, Ron and Hermione weren’t—”

“Hermione’s too worried you’ll run off again if she says anything, and Ron’s too good to be mad at you.”

Harry was confused. “Look, Gin, I’m really sorry for leaving without telling you, but you and I, it had been years—”

“I’m not mad at you for leaving me!” she nearly shouted. “It’s what you did to him!”

“To who?”

“To Ron, you absolute moron!”

“Ron?” What was she talking about? “I… you want something to drink?” Clearly this was going to be a longer conversation.

Ginny nodded jerkily.

He conjured up a couple mugs of hot chocolate, and they took them into the stands around the pitch, huddling up in their jackets against the wind. Harry glanced sideways at Ginny as she sipped her cocoa. She was even prettier now than she had been when they were together.

“Ron seems fine,” Harry said. “I’m living with him. I think I’d notice if he wasn’t.”

“Yeah, because you’re so observant,” Ginny retorted.

“Fair enough,” Harry said. “So tell me what I’m missing.”

Ginny took a deep breath, her brows knit together. “Things got really bad. It was like he was the same, but he wasn’t. None of us could get through to him. It reminded me of talking to the paintings at Hogwarts. The person in the picture’s there, but you can’t reach them.

“He took time off work to look for you, even though we all told him he was mad to do it. Obviously he didn’t find anything.”

“I didn’t want to be found,” Harry said.

Ginny just glared at him. “And then Hermione dumped him, and it just got worse. He was miserable, Harry.”

Harry stared at his shoes. “He didn’t tell me any of this.”

“Why would he?”

“Because I’m his friend?”

“You haven’t acted like it,” Ginny said coolly.

“I deserve that. But I didn’t know it would be like this. I mean, he seems fine now, right?”

_ “Seems _ , yeah. And things are better now. A lot better. But it took years. It took him longer to get over you leaving than Hermione dumping him, for god’s sake.”

“I had no idea,” Harry admitted.

“Well, you’ve always been self-involved,” Ginny said, but she was teasing. She’d finally cracked a smile.

“I’ll make it up to him,” Harry told her.

“You better. And if you leave again, I’ll come looking for you this time, and I’ll give you scars way worse than that one on your head.”

Harry chuckled. “I believe that.”

Ginny exhaled loudly. The waves of anger Harry had felt radiating off her before seemed to have gone. The sun even shone brighter, bringing out glittering, ruby red strands in her hair.

“If I’m being honest,” she said, “he was a nightmare to deal with all that time. Not thta I blame him, but… after Hermione, he tried dating. Went out with the most awful girls, and some of the dumbest blokes I’ve ever—”

“Blokes?” Harry sputtered.

Ginny looked alarmed. “Didn’t he tell you that, either?”

“No!”

“Bloody hell, what do you two even talk about?!” Ginny looked around, flustered. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t be weird about it!” Her voice turned threatening again.

“I’m not going to be! Give me a little credit.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “Sorry for being so…”

“Crabby?” She swatted his arm. “Joking. How are you, really, Gin?”

She scrubbed her face with her hands. “Like this, basically. I mean, I’m fine, things are great, but I’m just so… angry. It’s like, I’ll be doing something normal, then all of a sudden, I think about you, or Fred, and… we were just kids, you know?! We shouldn’t have had to go through that. And then I get so mad I can barely think straight. It’s lucky I’ve got the job I do, or I’d probably be picking fights with people in the street.” She shook her head. “I don’t approve of you running off, Harry, but I understand it. Sometimes I want to do the same thing.”

“If I learned anything from it,” Harry said, “it’s that your problems don’t go away, no matter how far you run.”

Ginny just shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. He said nothing — she’d just smack him again — but put an arm around her shoulders, to keep her from slipping away.

***

“Hey, mate. I stopped by that place by the Ministry on the way with the pies you like, got one for— uh, Harry?” Harry had thrown himself at Ron, hugging him tight enough that he couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. “What’re you doing?” he managed.

Harry pulled back. “I’m so sorry, Ron. For everything. I know I’ve said it already, but I have to say it again.”

“Erm, okay,” Ron said. “Why, exactly?”

“I saw Ginny today,” Harry said. “She told me everything. I had no idea how bad things got.”

“Ginny exaggerates,” Ron said, though the tops of his cheeks turned pink.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Not usually.”

“Look…” Ron said, scratching the back of his head. “So maybe it was hard. But it’s water under the bridge now.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Harry insisted. “You should be furious with me.”

“I was, alright? I was mad. But honestly, Harry, I’m so relieved you’re back that I don’t care anymore. Maybe that’s not how things should feel, but that’s how it is.”

Harry wanted to argue more, convince Ron that he deserved so, so much better than what Harry had given him, but he had other things on his mind. “Why did you and Hermione break up?” he asked instead.

“Whoa,” Ron said. “Slow down, will you? Let me eat some pie first, then we’ll talk.”

***

They ate their dinner, butter chicken pot pies that were truly delicious, then Ron brought Harry up to the roof. They wore blankets like cloaks, wrapping themselves up against the cold night. They settled against the brick, looking out over London. It was a shit view, sleazy billboards and rundown buildings, but Harry liked it all the same.

“So, alright,” Ron started, “After you left, things were a bit… well, I wasn’t myself. Didn’t want to do anything, couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed most days. Hermione tried to get me to do things, but I just… didn’t want to.

“She said one day — this is bloody embarrassing — that I cared more about the ghost of you than about her. And I realized she was right. So we broke up.”

Harry’s chest filled with emotion. “Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“Nah. She did me a favour, really. Without her there, I had to take care of myself. Had to start getting up again. Plus, now that we’re apart, it’s kind of obvious how different we are. Hermione’s always at work, and when she’s not, she’s thinking about it. Dunno if you’ve noticed, mate, but that’s not really me.”

Harry had noticed. When Ron was younger — Harry was reminded of his visions from the Mirror of Erised all those years ago — he’d wanted glory, fame, something to make him stand out from his siblings. But when Harry thought about Ron, he thought of warm meals, jokes, Wizard’s Chess and mulled mead. He thought of home. Which was basically the opposite of what he imagined for Hermione: parchment, fairness, good grades and a sharp mind.

Harry was living Ron’s way of life right now, and he liked it. It suited him, the quiet life.

“Ginny told me something else, too,” he said, before he could help it.

Ron tensed up. “What did she say?”

“She, uh— she mentioned that you’d been dating a lot after Hermione left…” Ron didn’t say anything; he just listened, still tense. “She might have mentioned it wasn’t just girls you were seeing.”

“Is Ginny writing my biography, then?” Ron said. His tone was light, but his body hadn’t relaxed. “If she is, I want a cut of the profits.”

“She didn’t mean to say anything,” Harry said. “She thought you’d already told me.”

“Didn’t know how, did I?” Ron said with a tight laugh. “Still don’t know quite what to think of it myself. I hope you don’t think it’s—”

“It’s fine, Ron,” Harry interrupted. “It’s really fine.”

Ron exhaled. “Ah, okay. Glad to hear it. Honestly, I don’t think you’ll notice much difference. It’s not like I’ll be bringing people — male or female — round the flat. Didn’t get on with any of them, in the end. Thought it might be easier with blokes, you know, since they don’t have so many bloody  _ feelings _ , but it was just as bad. It’s hard to explain… a lot of things we went through to people.”

“I had that problem, too,” Harry said. “When I was gone. Didn’t date much, but I tried, a bit. None of them got it, the women” — Harry spoke the words carefully — “or the blokes.”

Ron’s head whipped around. “Are you taking the piss?” he said.

“No, god no,” Harry said quickly. “I swear I’m not.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. He froze for a moment, staring at Harry, then leaned back against the wall. “Huh. You too, then. Who’d have thought?”

“Not me,” Harry said, “though especially not about you.”

“No?”

“Mate, you’ve been drooling over Hermione since the day you met her.”

Ron shrugged. “That was just Hermione, though. Didn’t really ever see much in other girls. I mean, the only other one I was with was Lavender, and you know how well that went.

“Nah, I think I always knew on some level,” Ron continued. “You remember the Yule Ball?” Like Harry could forget. “I still remember watching Hermione and Krum come down those stairs, all dressed up. I couldn’t decide who I was more jealous of.” Harry laughed.

“What about you?” Ron asked. “Who was your first… you know. Let me guess: Oliver Wood?”

“You got me,” Harry lied. He couldn’t bear to tell Ron it had been Cedric.

They didn’t say anything else, just looked out over the city, cars bustling along down busy streets, a few brooms in the sky above them.

“I hate to break up sharing time,” Ron said, “but I’m getting fucking cold up here.”

“Me too,” Harry said. “Let’s go in.” But as Ron headed for the stairs, Harry pulled him back. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I”m sorry. Again. For not being here.”

“You can stop saying it, mate.”

“I mean it,” Harry protested.

“I know you do,” Ron said. “Come on. Pig’s probably getting hungry.”

Harry followed Ron down the stairs. Unlike Ron’s male unfeeling ideal, he had a lot of feelings at the moment. He felt guilty for hurting Ron. He felt guilty for hurting Hermione, too, and figured he probably owed her a better apology. He felt angry with himself for, well, just about everything.

But mostly, he felt a little stupid, because  _ how  _ had it taken him this long to notice how great Ron’s ass looked in those jeans?


End file.
